"Well, if what you say is right, they're going to blackmail that poor boob."
"And serve him darned well right," he answered shortly. "A man has got to buy his experience, and why should that horror be an exception?"
"That's going too far," I said, a little angrily. "You may not like him, but you can't let him be swindled by a couple of crooks."
He shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "I disagree entirely," he answered. "However, for the sake of argument, let's assume you're right. What do you suggest we should do?"
"Get James on one side and warn him," I said promptly.
"Try it," he remarked. "And then see the result. Do you really imagine, my dear chap, that you stand a dog's chance against that girl? The only result will be that you'll lose some good shooting."
"I don't care," I said doggedly. "Chance or no chance, I'm going to have a shot." I rose and crossed the room, leaving Carruthers smiling faintly.
"Excuse me, James," I said, bowing to the girl, "was it this week-end or next that you asked me to shoot?"
James had risen, and with my hand on his arm I drew him a little way from the table. "This coming one as ever is, old lad," he burbled. "I say, I want to introduce you to—"
"Look here, James," I interrupted urgently, "pay attention to what I'm saying." I was speaking in a low voice in his ear, and over his shoulder I saw the big man staring at me steadily. "These two people you're out with tonight are crooks."
"Crooks," bleated James. "Crooks?"
"For God's sake don't shout," I muttered. "Yes—crooks."
"Go to blazes!" said James succinctly. "And stay there. I'm going to marry this lady. What the dickens do you mean by crooks?"
He turned abruptly and sat down, leaving me standing there feeling a fool. And the feeling was not diminished by the look in the big man's eyes. I realised that he knew what I had come about; short of being deaf, he must have heard what James said. And his expression seconded James's remark as to my immediate destination.
"Well," said Henry St. John Carruthers, as I rejoined him. "What luck?"
"The silly fool can stew in his own juice," I answered shortly. "He says he's going to marry the girl."
"Quite possibly he may be," he remarked. "He's got enough money to make it worth her while. Well, I'm going to have another whisky-and-soda, and then I'm for bed."
"I still don't feel quite happy about it," I said. "After all, the old man is a very decent sort."
"Oh, dry up!" said Carruthers wearily. "You've done what you could, and you've got your answer. What the deuce is the good of worrying over a disease like that youth?" He finished his drink and rose. "I'm for the sheets. Coming?"
I followed him across the room, and we went into the cloakroom to get our hats.
James and his friends were still at their table, but though we passed close to them he took no notice of us. Which, when all was said and done, was hardly to be wondered at. I took my top-hat and put it on. As Carruthers said, he'd have to buy his experience.
And even as I was dismissing the matter from my mind the swing doors opened and the big man came in. His hands were in his pockets; the cigar still stuck out from his face. And he stood there in absolute silence, staring first at me and then at Carruthers. But principally at Carruthers.
It was an offensive stare, and I felt my pulse quicken a little. It was the stare that precedes a row: the stare that is designed to produce a row. And after a while—funnily enough, it seemed quite natural at the time—I faded out of the picture. Though it was I who had spoken to James, the issue narrowed down to the big man and Henry St. John Carruthers.
I think it was then that I realised for the first time that Carruthers was also a big man.
The depth of his chest was astonishing—and the broadness of his back. And with a queer little thrill I saw that his fists—big fists they were—were clenched at his sides. Moreover, for quite five seconds he had made no movement to take his opera hat, which was standing open on the counter beside him. He just stood staring at the big man, while the big man stared back at him. And neither the attendant nor I existed for either of them.
Then suddenly the music started, and with it the tension snapped. Like two dogs who have been eyeing one another and then at last move away, so did the big man pass back into the ballroom, while Carruthers turned round for his hat. And as he turned the swing door hit him in the side. Now, it was, I verily believe, accidental; the big man had passed through normally, and Carruthers being where he was, the door in swinging back had hit him.
But accident or no accident, the result was the same. Into Henry St. John Carruthers's eyes there came a look which spelt one word. And that word was murder.
That he was angry was not surprising. If there is one thing in this world which drives me to thoughts of battle, murder and sudden death, it is when a man lets a door swing in my face. But Carruthers was more than angry; he was white with rage. There was a pulse hammering in his throat, and for an appreciable time he stood there drumming with his fingers on the wall. Then he turned to me.
"The egregious James is lucky," he said quietly. "He shall not be parted from his money after all."
"You're not going to have a row in the club?" I said apprehensively. "It was an accident, I'm sure."
"An accident that I like not the savour of," he remarked in the same quiet voice. "But don't be alarmed; the sacred floor of the Sixty-Six shall not be desecrated."
"What do you propose to do?" I said, staring at him.
"If you care to wait and see, I shall be delighted to have your company," he answered. "If not, I'll say good night."
For a moment or two I hesitated; then, moved by a sudden impulse, I said: "I'll stand by to bail you out."
"Don't worry," he grunted. "If there's any bailing to be done, it won't be me."
He turned and left the room, and it was left to the attendant to sum up the situation. "Good night, sir," he said to me. "I reckon somebody is going to be 'urt."
So did I; and as I followed Carruthers up the stairs I had an attack of common sense. "Look here, old man," I remarked as I joined him in the street, "don't you think this jest has gone far enough? What's wrong with that bed you were talking about?"
It was then that Henry St. John Carruthers grew polite— astoundingly polite. And when a man grows polite at the same time that his nostrils are narrowed, the time for words is past. His hat was tilted back on his head: his hands were in his trouser pockets, and as he stood on the kerb he swayed a little on his heels. "I have already suggested that we should say good night," he said very distinctly—and held out his hand.
"Rot," I answered. "Where you go I go."
"Then shall we save our breath?" he remarked.
I shrugged my shoulders: the thing had got beyond me. And for a space of about ten minutes we smoked in silence. An occasional taxi went past in Piccadilly, and once a policeman strolled close by us along the pavement.
"Good night, officer," said Carruthers.
"Good night, gentlemen," he answered. "Looking for a taxi?"
"Shortly," said Carruthers, and the policeman walked on.
"He little knows," I murmured jocularly, "the desperadoes he has just encountered." And then, as he made no answer, I looked at him curiously. "What exactly are you going to do?" I said.
He held up his hand to a passing taxi. "Get in," he said curtly. "I want you to wait," he remarked to the man. "My friend and I will sit inside." He got in after me. "Do?" he said. "I'm going to break up that man."
And for a further space of ten minutes we smoked in silence, while I asked myself whether or not I was mad. To